


Grand Prix

by orphan_account



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Action & Romance, Alternate Universe - Car Racing, BAMF Illya, Car Accidents, F/M, Grand Prix (1966), Internalized Homophobia, M/M, Minor Violence, Period-Typical Homophobia, Romance, Slash, Slow Burn, Straight side character romance if you squint, Waverly is a Cinnamon Roll
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-10-01
Updated: 2015-10-02
Packaged: 2018-04-24 02:39:43
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4902361
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Napoleon Solo is a race car driver, and his opponent is the one and only Illya Kuryakin. The year is 1966, and the Grand Prix- by far the most important racing tournament- has just begun.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Monte Carlo

**Author's Note:**

> This is based of the wonderful movie Grand Prix (1966). I think Guy Richie paid a tribute to the movie in Man From Uncle, choosing similar shooting styles during the chase scenes and fight scenes. So, of course, I had to go and write a fan fiction and tie the two movies together. 
> 
> Bare in mind I know almost nothing about cars and car racing, so I apologize if I get anything terribly wrong.

The engines of the cars sound like a thunderstorm in Napoleon’s ears, filling his brain with the thumping of what is possibly his own heartbeat, and what is possibly the sound of the car itself. The Chrysler- Napoleon’s one true love- is a beautiful machine that is sure to win this race. He has nothing to worry about.

Other than, of course, the astonishingly high chance of dying a painful death on the tracks.

"The course, Monte Carlo especially, it’s like… it’s like driving down the barrel of a loaded gun.” Napoleon told the interviewer mere moments before stepping into his car, his coffin. “The potential for problems are numberless.”

Saunders- the face of Chrysler, the money man- leans over the car, looming on top of Napoleon, and attempts to shout over the thunderously roaring engines and cheering onlookers. “Let’s start the season off well, Solo. Drive the car, don’t try to make it stand on one wheel.” He’s too close to Napoleon’s face, breathing every yell violently against the driver. Napoleon glares, annoyed, and pulls his goggles on over his eyes. He doesn’t say anything back, for once. Saunders is paying for the car after all. 

_Nine, eight, seven._

Napoleon puts a hand on the gearshift and a hand on the wheel. 

_Six, five, four._

The engine huffs angrily. 

_Three, two, one ... Go!_

And with that the race begins. Napoleon is coming in fourth, his opponents pressing up against him as tight as match sticks against the curving streets of Monte Carlo. The little metal cars are like flint against the pavement, curving and skidding as if about to catch fire. At this point, even this early in the race, Napoleon can’t afford to turn his head to look at the car next to him. Not that he needs to, he knows who it is, the man daring to inch forward and cut Solo off. 

Alexander Vinciguerra. Italian playboy, billionaire, Ferrari financier. Being the son of one of the head distributors of Ferrari, he naturally has a head start that he most certainly intends to use as his advantage. Vinciguerra, funnily enough, has become quite problem for Napoleon Solo.

He’s proving that again now as he threatens to send Solo skidding off the street. All Napoleon can hear is the sound of his heartbeat and tire on stone. He turns the corner with surprising grace, escaping the grips of his italian opponent to fly to the front of the lineup.

_At the end of 5 laps the order is Kuryakin, Solo, Vinciguerra, and Waverly. Solo’s made his way to second place, though can’t quite squeeze his Chrysler past Kuryakin’s Volga. There’s very little room to pass on these narrow Monte Carlo streets._

City roads aren’t meant to be ridden on at a speed as ungodly as this one. Though when did mankind ever decline to take on a challenge?  

 

~*~

 

Gaby wakes with a start to the sound of car engines outside her window. She had almost forgotten about the races, the day the streets are over taken by those infernal cars. But how could she forget now, when the sounds of the speeding tires are pounding in her ears? 

She lights a cigarette before putting on her robe and pulling her hair back, heading to the terrace to watch the blur of cars and endless crowds. Gaby thinks she sees Solo’s  number 17 fly by, but it’s too fast for her to tell. 

She had promised Napoleon she would go to the winners circle afterwards, provided he win. He is definitely counting on doing so. 

Resigning herself back to her little apartment with a sigh, the brunette flops onto the bed dramatically and covers her head with a pillow, to attempt in vain to block out the storm of car engines and the broadcaster’s announcements. 

By the 75th lap her ashtray is almost full. Three quarters of the way into the race and Gaby thinks her head may very well explode. 

She is going to _kill_ that Solo for making her stay in Monte Carlo for the races. 

 

~*~

 

_Vinciguerra in number 11 Ferrari is down to fourth place, that’s 78 laps gone. Number 17, Napoleon Solo still in front…_ _but he cannot get away from number 12, Illya Kuryakin in the Volga._

And here Napoleon thought that Vinciguerra would be the problem. The Russian Kuryakin is breathing down his neck, inching closer by the second. He swerves and he darts forward threateningly, and just as Napoleon thinks he’s losing him… the gear shift in his Chrysler jams. Solo pulls at it once, twice, completely panicked, and looks down for the fraction of a second to see what he could possibly do. On his right the blur of trees and old french buildings slide past his vision, and left is the ocean harbor.

Napoleon loses his sense of time. The Russian’s front wheel snags against the back of Solo’s car. Solo veers. He flips. A screeching, terrible scream emits from his car, sounding vaguely like an angry bird of prey and a marching band falling down a very steep flight of stairs. In only the span of a breath he finds himself in the Mediterranean, sinking in the beautiful blue of the water. 

Solo can half-hear people shouting above him, but all he can think about is how he is going to stop from drowning and get out of the car that had managed to skid off the road and into the bay. So much for winning the race. 

A few hundred feet behind Solo, back on the road, Illya Kuryakin is begin pried from what looks more like a crushed soda can than a car. He’s bloodied, bruised, and beaten, carried out into an ambulance to leave the Russian made Volga to sit in pieces at the side of the road. 

Napoleon is pulled onto a little fishing boat close by, hastily wrapped in a blanket and left to watch his beautiful car sink to the bottom of the bay. Solo doesn’t know how badly the Russian has been hurt. He doesn’t know if the Russian will live.

So much for winning the race. 

 

~*~

 

There’s been an accident. 

Gaby walks, careful not to run and cause even more panic, making her way down to the tracks. She knows it’s Solo who’s been in the car crash, not because anyone told her, but because she _knows._  It’s exactly the type of think he’d do. 

"That’s what they come for, to see someone get killed.” She mutters under her breath to no one in particular, completely unsurprised at the situation. Perhaps the shock hasn’t settled in yet, Gaby thinks with an air of detachment, though she knows it isn’t true. Napoleon isn’t dead. He wouldn’t go and die the first race of the season. 

She can still hear the cars dart by as she walks along the cobbled streets and perfect villas, the sun still shining and the sky still a perfect blue. “Ms Teller.” Someone says to Gaby, causing her to whip around a little too quickly. 

“Yes?” It’s Saunders. She supposes that he would be the first one to know if Napoleon was hurt, after all, it would cost the dealer a great deal of money to pay for the car repairs. Contrary to the fact, Saunders looks perfectly composed, if not a little too relaxed. “Don’t tell me Solo’s dead."

“No, but he will be after I’m through with him.” Saunders seems to be perfectly serious. 

“Wonderful.” 

Gaby finds Napoleon back at the hotel, still in his racing clothes and covered with grease. She frowns slightly when noticing the cut on his forehead. “You might just be an idiot.” Gaby says to him as the elevator doors open, and Solo smiles. There’s a smudge of grease along his jawline and the dark hair that is almost always perfectly kept is disheveled. 

“Great dress Gaby, orange is such a lovely color on you.” 

“Don’t change the subject.” 

Napoleon sighs rather dramatically. “Illya Kuryakin, the Russian. He tried to pass me and I cut him off. Next thing I know, I’m in the water and he’s in an ambulance."

“You cut him off.” Gaby says somewhat accusingly, crossing her arms. For someone so small she does manage to look very menacing, Napoleon thinks, and unlocks the door to his hotel room. 

“It was an accident.” Napoleon defends, tossing his jacket onto the chair and lying back onto his bed, beyond exhausted. He glances over at Gaby, who is still looking at him questioningly. 

Many people used to think that they were lovers. Many people still think so, no matter how often Gaby tells the press exactly how untrue that is. Let them believe it, Solo would tell her, there are worse things to happen than be accused of sleeping with a race car driver as renowned and handsome as himself. At that point in the conversation Gaby would scowl, though not unfriendly, and punch him in the arm. 

“And he’s alive?” Gaby asks him, putting her bag down on the table and fiddling with the sunglasses in her hand. Right, they’re still talking about Kuryakin. 

“Don’t worry, he’s alive. But it’s not pretty.” Napoleon cringes inwardly and closes his eyes, not really wanting to think about how the Russian’s career will be affected by this little mishap of his. "Perhaps I should pay my respects and go visit him at the hospital.” 

“Don’t you dare, Solo. That’s just in poor taste.” Gaby scoffs, and Napoleon doesn’t say anything in response. He gets up slowly and pours himself a glass of scotch. 

That night they pull the number 17 Chrysler out of the ocean and drop it at side of the road, filled with fish. 

 

 

~*~

 

 

Kuryakin has six fractures. Two in his leg, three in his left arm, and one on his collar that stings a particularly great deal. His ribs are bruised. Morphine, surprisingly, never seems work as well as you want it to. 

Illya moves to turn the painkiller supply up with his good arm, wincing as the bandages shift. He’s good with pain, he always has been, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t appreciate a little morphine sometimes. It does help with avoiding to think about the situation at hand, the inevitable. He won’t be racing Grand Prix. 

Or at least that’s what everyone’s telling him. Kuryakin will beg to differ. 

The Russian relaxes back into the hospital bed slightly, listening to the whir of machines and electronic beep of his heartbeat. He can’t move his legs, nor can he feel them, and he has Napoleon Solo to thank for that. Well, that isn’t exactly fair, and he knows it. It wasn’t all the American's fault. Kuryakin was the one to get caught on his back wheel. 

All the same, Illya can’t help but feel his fingers twitch with anger at Solo, for if it weren’t for him and his low grade, rinky-dink American machinery Kuryakin would be preparing for the next race. Instead he finds himself watching bruises form and waiting countless hours for his bones to mend. Kuryakin rolls the thought around in his mind twice over as he slips slowly into a dreamless sleep. 

Damn that Napoleon Solo. 

 

~*~

 

Napoleon, being the genius he is, decides to go visit his Russian opponent at the hospital. Not to apologize- Solo never apologizes for things that he could not control- but for other reasons unknown to the man at the moment. 

He had only met Kuryakin once before, at a cocktail party a few weeks prior to the first race, to the accident. Napoleon had smiled charmingly at the taller man from across the room, and Kuryakin had nodded in response and returned to starring at the liquid in his glass. From the start it was clear as day that the two of them were not to engage with each other beyond the race tracks, even then only as rivals. Solo wasn’t quite prepared for how the Russian would react to his surprise visit to the hospital. Napoleon wasn’t quite sure why he was risking finding out. 

As the nurse points him in the direction of Kuryakin’s room, Solo nods silently and walks with a surprising air of confidence to the doorway. 

“Kuryakin.” Napoleon greets, leaning against the frame. Illya looks up at him swiftly, the piercing blue of his eyes burning with rage. There’s nothing he can do but lay back in stillness, willing his heart monitor to stay at a steady pace as Solo takes as step towards him. Illya slowly reaches forward to try and call the nurse, but the button is too far for him to reach without straining his shattered bones.

“Need help with that?” The jackal in front of Illya asks, his slick-backed jet hair strangely iridescent in the cheap lighting. Napoleon's accent is far more American than Kuryakin could have ever imagined, and despite the relaxed tone of voice his expression is serious. 

“The last thing I need is your help, Solo.” 

“Just offering.” Napoleon has taken another step forward, inching closer as if attempting to test his boundaries. The American is dragging a tree brach across the metal bars of an angry tiger’s cage. The tiger will always sit in silence, not attempting to attack, he knows his prison will stop him from doing any real damage. All the tiger can do is wait, plotting silently like a game of chess.

“They say you’re finished, but you aren’t, are you. You’ll get back in the car.” Napoleon says after a moment of heavy silence, his voice certain. “If I said I thought you were going to drive again, they’d think I was crazy. They’ll think you’re crazy when you tell them."

“You know nothing of me and my driving.” Illya says sharply, and scowls even heavier as he sees Solo crack the smallest quirk of a smile. 

“I know you’re not going to let yourself lose so easily. You’re not backing down without a fight.” Napoleon’s voice is calm, almost monotonous, and Illya can feel his fingers twitch.

“I’ll see you on the race track. Now get out of my room.” Illya glares as he says this, not wanting there to be anymore bones broken. He watches as Solo slowly turns to leave. Though he isn't sure, Illya thinks he may have seen the shadow of a smile on the American's face. 

 


	2. Compensation

Due to certain events involving a faulty gear shift and a cocky American, Kuryakin doesn’t attend the after party. Not that it really is a drastic change, it's well known that the Russian driver detests and avoids all social events, parties, or anything mildly capitalist in the sense. Especially if it had to do with his racing.

Napoleon and Gaby, on the other hand, are known for quite the opposite philosophy. Whether Solo wins or loses he attends the gatherings with alarming enthusiasm, a stiff drink in hand and a certain Gaby Teller always on his arm. They are, as everybody knows, quite the striking pair. 

Tonight Gaby is head to toe in green, a lovely mini dress- that Napoleon chose- with silver and pink metal sequins spread like snake scales along the neckline. Dior. (It’s absolutely  _impossible_  to go wrong with Dior, as Napoleon would say.) The two of them disperse into the party of silk-clad europeans that cling ever so delicately to their cocktails, laughing and reminiscing what an amusing day it had been. Napoleon glances towards a group of women that sit and talk with theatrical gestures, painted nails bruising over scintillating necklaces. He thinks to himself, for a brief moment, how easily it would be to introduce himself to the flock and leave with at least two pieces of jewelry pocketed. 

“You’re not a petty thief, Solo. Stop acting like one.” He recalls Gaby telling him this after finding a ring and two wrist watches in his jacket. Napoleon could hardly say that someone with his level of skill in the matter is  _petty,_  but Gaby will always insist that a thief is a thief, no matter how much fun he's having.

As a cheer emits at the entrance of the room, Napoleon draws his attention to the person entering. It’s Alexander Waverly, the British, older racer that’s won the first race of the season. Solo has actually become quite friendly with Waverly, despite the fact they’re technically racing against each other. 

Solo watches with a smile as Waverly is served a very large drink and greeted with the upmost eagerness and praise from the people at the party. Either Napoleon is too tired to feel jealous or is quite honestly happy for his opponent. 

Suddenly Gaby is next to Solo, looking on at Waverly as he makes his way across the party. Napoleon can see him glance over at Gaby and make eye contact once, only to look away to shake hands with yet another congratulatory stranger. “Do you want me to introduce you to him?” Napoleon asks her softly, a smile on his face. 

“Oh, alright.” Gaby says, as if it was an obligation on her part. Taking Solo by the arm, she leads him in the direction of the victor. Her bobble earrings bounce joyfully with each step. 

“Waverly, I’d like you to meet a friend of mine, Ms Gaby Teller. She’s a brilliant engineer, car fanatic.” Solo says when with the british driver. Waverly smiles warmly, pushing up his glasses and extending to shake Gaby’s hand. 

“Oh, yes of course. I’ve seen you around the-“ Alexander is interrupted by a man that appears out of nowhere to commend him, shaking his hand enthusiastically. “Well, I’ve seen you around the tracks.” Alexander continues when the man slips away, only to be intercepted and cut off once more by an older woman wishing to tell him how great she thought the race was. The woman leaves. “...I’ve seen you around the tracks.” He finally manages to say, turning back towards Gaby and mirroring the friendly smile on her face.  

“Yes, you have.” Gaby says with a slight laugh, glancing over to look at Napoleon only to find that he had gone off to talk to a tall and willowy young blonde. “That was a wonderful race, Alexander, though I’m sure you’ve heard."

“Why, thank you.” Waverly says with a smile, tapping his finger against the rim of his glass. “I think, actually, I’ve got something that may interest you, Ms Teller, if you’re interested in cars. Would you like to see the garage?” He asks her. If Gaby is as good with cars as Solo said, she would love to see the treasure trove Alexander had accumulated, machinery of the most wonderful sorts.

“Garage?"

“Yes. It’s a…” Another person cuts in to interrupt Waverly and praise him, going on about how ’simply marvelously’ the race was. Gaby stifles an exasperated scoff as she watches Waverly politely converse with the man until he leaves.

 “I suppose I should show you the garage, then.” Waverly says, now deciding with certainty to devote his attention to the woman in from of him. "After all, if we don’t escape from here we’ll never get past hello. Come to think of it, we haven’t even managed that yet. So… Hello.” 

“…Hello.” 

“Come with me?” 

“I’d be delighted.”  

 

~*~

 

Napoleon brings home the blonde he met and wakes in the morning to find that she’s already left. He lights a cigarette. Staring up at the ceiling of his apartment, Napoleon blows out slow puffs into the air and watches the grey smoke spin and disappear. The morning sunlight that peeks through the window is beautiful, and as the breeze makes the curtains imitate little children's ghosts, Napoleon thinks of Illya.

He predicts that the Russian will be back on his feet just in time for the second race, if only to prove everyone else wrong. 

Yet Napoleon knows almost nothing else about Kuryakin. To be fair, nobody knows anything other than the obvious when it came to the racer. Russian, Communist, aggressive on the tracks to the point that other drivers would slow for fear of being overrun.

With the exception of Napoleon, of course. He would never falter when Kuryakin's engine growled from up behind. He even might, in a a strange, unsettling way, be greatly disappointed if Illya doesn't race again. Napoleon always loves a challenge, after all. 

Illya Kuryakin, ferocity personified, is certainly a challenge. 

 

~*~

 

Illya gets back in the car. 

After a few days of slow healing, he decides that enough is enough and at this point he may as well be digging his own grave. Oleg is the first to find out when Kuryakin practically marches out of the hospital, immediately calling a taxi and asking for the fastest route back to his house. When his superior calls him long distance to ask why the hell he's out of bed, Illya explains in brief Russian that he's preparing for the next race. Oleg, the man on the other line, surprisingly enough is not surprised. Kuryakin is the best of the best, after all, and won't be stopped by a mere fracture. Or multiple fractures, that is. 

A few of Oleg's body guards drag the number 12 Volga out in front of Illya's rented house, the driver leaning against the doorframe. Kuryakin still needs crutches, still has a heavy pain in his chest every time he exhales. Walking, or hobbling rather, he makes his way to the car gets in, lifting his hulking body into the seat with excruciating slowness. For a gray sky, Illya notes as he finally manages to secure himself, it is curiously hot and uncomfortable.

They push the car out onto the track and Illya pulls his goggles on. As the engine revs the team of people step back, all varying levels of nervous for the hercules in front of them. Kuryakin's bruised bones ache like nothing else, but that's the last thing he's thinking about as he presses full throttle on the accelerator, volting down the road at top speed. 

That cowboy Napoleon had ought to watch his back, Illya thinks, disappearing down the road like a camera flare. 

 

~*~

 

The next test run, Kuryakin sets a new lap record. Tomorrow is the race, the first one since the accident, and Illya is making an utterly unbelievable comeback. 

So unbelievable, in fact, that it's all anyone is talking about. Kuryakin despises the attention, even if it does mean that he's ahead of the game. Pulling up from the track his car slides smoothly to a halt as the group, some of them press, help him out. The driving itself is unbelievably painful, every bump and turn a stab in his ribcage or a punch to his still healing bones. Though it's nothing Illya can't handle with a few painkillers.  

When the Russian notices Napoleon Solo waiting for him at the entrance to the track, however, all effect the painkillers once had suddenly seems to vanish.

"If it isn't the Cowboy." Illya says, grabbing the crutch that had been left waiting for him on the sidelines. "What are you doing here?" His voice is stern, annoyed, and Kuryakin almost feels embarrassed to stand in front of Solo so weak he is practically unable to walk on his own. 

"If it isn't the Red Peril. Hello to you too." Napoleon quips in response, his smile disarmingly friendly. You'd think Napoleon was speaking to an old friend if it weren't for the fact that the two had only met once before, and their only exchange was rather an unpleasant one. They walk along the sidelines of the crowded track, in the direction of the cafe where Solo plans to meet Gaby in an hour. He's not expecting Kuryakin to come along with them. 

Illya frowns at the other. "Answer my question, Solo." He can't tell what kind of game the American is trying to compete in, but whatever it is, Illya doesn't want to play. 

"I'd like to congratulate you." 

"I'm sure you would." Illya says with a scoff, wanting Napoleon to do nothing more than get to the point of this conversation. Glancing over at Solo, Illya notices how tired he is- probably due to pre-race nerves. After all, anyone with a profession like their's that say they sleep well is a liar. 

"I'm being perfectly honest." Napoleon says with a surprisingly charming smirk, and Illya's frown deepens. Solo's smile doesn't falter, the smile that makes Illya's stomach curl, makes him want to wipe that smirk off Solo's face just to feel right again. He looks away.

Illya thinks of the ways he can destroy the perfect composure that Napoleon manages, mess up his hair and crumple his creases, if only to prove that Solo's just as incompetent as the rest of them. As if somehow that would make Illya, in comparison, less fucked up.

The Russian on the other hand, in Napoleon's opinion, is the type of person that he wants to untie like a very complicated knot. He's the type of person that requires a very in-depth disassembly in order to understand, much like a racing car.

Napoleon thinks about the ways he could pin-point the sanity in Illya's chaos, begin to understand the rationality behind the actions he takes. Kuryakin is the perfect soldier, yet crumbles into an anarchy of rage at the drop of a hat. He's the villain and the hero all in one; though Napoleon supposes that there is only ever a fine line between the two.

Napoleon wants to understand. He wants to know why the hell he cares if Illya gets back in the car or if he doesn't. Napoleon  _wants..._

Kuryakin stops short when he realizes the two of them are not headed anywhere. "You should leave now. There is no purpose for you to be here other than to make the press think we are friends." He says in a clipped tone, his Russian accent coming on think. 

"And we are not friends, I understand that completely." 

"Then you'll understand why I'm asking you to leave." Illya snaps, and Napoleon stands there as if to roll the words around in his mind for a moment. And then, after looking the Russian once over, he turns and walks away without another word. If silence is what Illya wants out of him, then that's what he is going to get. 


End file.
